We're running a sequential cold/flu cycle at The HenHouse this month. Started off with Da Roostah, then the Number One Son came down with it -- highly unusual since he misses maybe one day of school a decade. They were both home all week last week, eating Henny's famous homemade chicken soup and going through tissues like they were, um, paper. Then the Little Princess felt cruddy, seemed to recover, then crashed and burned. Thursday, I could feel the Crud's Icy Grip around my brain and gizzard, and I tried to hide from it by sleeping every time I felt tired. So far, I've slept off and on for 48 hours and feel rotten. I'm not even interested in watching the mindless crap on television. Oh, I indulged myself with Steve Irwin for half an hour tonight, but I can watch Steve-O any time. Gotta love a man who is so open about his love for his fellow creatures.

But I might not update this site for a few days. I feel cruddy. I did write a little essay that I'll leave with ya, to tide ya over till I'm back and babbling again.

Enjoy:

Bob’s Last Bump and Grind

I remember a patient of mine, Bob Shawver. It was 1982 and he swooped onto our unit one March afternoon like some gangly exotic bird. He was six-four and weighed 130 pounds. He’d lost over fifty pounds since January, and diagnosed as “weight loss of questionable etiology” and “flu.” Bob’s companion Victor was a handsome, intense man who dressed in smart dark slacks and white dress shirt with a conservative sweater over top. I had the pleasure of recording Bob’s patient intake.

“What do you do for a living?”

“I guess you’d call me a flaming faggot,” he replied. “I’m a female impersonator.” He indicated a large satchel beside the bed. Victor opened the bag and pulled out a couple of brilliantly sequined dresses and some oversized costume jewelry.

“Then you must be very good at your work.” He was so thin, and so tall. It was hard to imagine him appearing feminine. I could imagine him being a utility pole impersonator, but not impersonating a woman.

He guffawed. “How intuitive of you. I’m afraid I’m so thin now, I could only play Diana Ross and I’m the wrong flavor for that,” and he let out an exaggerated sigh. I giggled. Bob’s openness was refreshing. He had that freedom of spirit to just… be… who and what he was, making apology to no one. The Catholic hospital I worked at was a warm and loving environment as long as you fit into the family mold that was considered acceptable. I was 26 years old, never married, a “free spirit” as Mother Superior put it in a less-than-positive tone of voice that implied I was the town round-heels.

Bob’s chest x-rays revealed severe pneumonia and advanced cancer of both lungs. I believe he also had Kaposi’s sarcoma, a malignant growth of the blood vessels which causes reddish purple, coin-size spots and lesions on the skin. This was 1982, years before AIDS was openly acknowledged as a problem in the United States. There had never been a confirmed case of AIDS in West Virginia. Only 1,000 confirmed American AIDS cases were acknowledged by February 1983, and this was a full year earlier. Bob’s physician declined pursuing an AIDS diagnosis on Bob.

At risk to my job – which was always teetering on the verge of elimination due to some impertinence or another I’d committed – I sat down with Bob and Victor and went over some articles I’d read in a scientific magazine about the new disease, acquired immune deficiency syndrome – called AIDS for short. It was obvious to all three of us that Bob had the classic symptoms of the syndrome, and should be tested.

“Honey, you have AIDS as sure as I’m sitting here.” Victor gently stroked Bob’s forearm. It was swollen where an IV had infiltrated a few hours ago.

“Sure looks that way to me,” I said. “Let me get you a warm wet pack for that arm; it’ll make it feel better faster.”

When I returned with the pack, Bob and Victor were entwined in a warm gentle hug. I felt a lump in my throat; I recognized that embrace. It meant they’d acknowledged an impending misfortune and were committing to one another, come what may. I wrapped Bob’s forearm in the wet warm wrap and asked him if his doctor had mentioned anything about a private room yet.

“Why’s that, Ginger?” Bob asked.

“Because it’s my feeling that when your doctor becomes convinced you have AIDS, he’ll move you to a private room.”

Victor caught Bob’s eyes. “You know you won’t be coming home, honey,” he said so quietly and gently I almost didn’t hear it.

“I’ll never perform again if I don’t go home, and hell if I’m never performing again,” Bob retorted. “That last one was wonderful as always, but damned if that’s gonna be how I’m remembered. How long do I have before you stick me with that infernal needle again, girlie?”

I reckoned I could leave it out for an hour. Bob said he was going to put on a show for the evening shift supervisor, Mary. She was a middle-aged devout Catholic mother of eleven and needless to say, conservative. She was due on our unit about nine o’clock. Mary was dependable and made her rounds like clockwork. I left Bob and Victor for some private time and busied myself taking care of my other patients, giving out pain medicines and jotting notations in charts.

At 9:05, Mary lumbered off the elevator. She leaned on the counter at the nurses station and asked how everything was going. “Going great, thanks, Mary,” I answered. “I have to get an IV back in Mr. Shawver before he goes to bed, but other than that, no sweat.” The other nurses filled her in on what was going on with their charges. The door to Bob’s room opened. Victor stuck his head out for an instant. The door closed again. There was a bit of a hubbub in Bob’s room for a few seconds.

Suddenly the door burst open and “The Stripper” song blared from a boom box in Victor’s hand. We all turned to see what the commotion was as Bob, all six-foot-four inches of him came sashaying through the doorway of his room. He had a baby blue feather boa looped around his neck and one arm. He was naked except for a tiny baby blue bikini bottom and a pair of five-inch-high baby blue and silver sequined pumps. He bumped and ground, sashayed and flipped that boa here and there. He had the moves. He did a double leg shimmy and worked the boa in between his legs from front to back. I secretly wished I was as flexible as he was and I joined him in the hall for a dueling shoulder shimmy. We rocked back and forth, shimmying our shoulders, one leaning in as the other leaned out. As it was, Bob looked like a huge naked flamingo whose remaining feathers had been dyed blue for a bizarre Easter party. I wish I could’ve seen him perform when he was healthy.

Mary’s mouth hung open. She was totally slack-jawed until she said, “Ginger, you stop that right now. Wait till I tell your mother.” I laughed and said, “Mary, Mom won’t be a bit shocked that I took advantage of a chance to dance.” But I stopped. It would be hard to skirt a charge of unauthorized dancing if I didn’t stop immediately.

The supervisor knew I was a lost cause and turned her attention to my patient. “Mr. Shawver, please stop that right now. Go back to bed and put some clothes on.” As if on cue, Victor turned off the music and Bob began goose-stepping in those outlandish baby blue heels. He spun on one foot and goose-stepped back to his room. Victor closed the door behind him.

I didn’t get written up for that incident. Thankfully, Mary had a better sense of humor than I’d realized. I restarted Bob’s IV and we enjoyed chatting about his last performance.

Bob passed away in May. He’d long since been given a private room – on another nursing unit, even though ours was set aside for terminal patients. Dr. X didn’t want me poisoning Bob’s mind with ideas about AIDS or other issues the doctor didn’t want to address. I visited Bob and Victor every afternoon those last two months. Bob made arrangements to leave his body to the university. It was the best thing he could think of to do, to advance study of AIDS. He asked me to speak at his wake, and I agreed.

“I don’t want folks snotting around about me dying, girlie,” he said. “You’ll know what to say.”

I’m not a speaker, really. I’d attended many of my former patients’ funerals at the request of family members but I’d never spoken at one before. I stood behind the wooden podium in the little church sanctuary and met each person’s gaze, and at once I knew what to say. I stepped in front of the podium and I began with, “We all know he doesn’t want us to mourn life. He wants us to celebrate life. Let me tell you about Bob’s last bump and grind…”